Archive for friday flash

Some Men Would Let the World Burn

Posted in Flash stories, Short fiction stories with tags , , , , , , , , on 08/02/2014 by Cindy Vaskova

I had luck or some divine intervention or well something winning for the second time the Flash! Friday micro fiction contest and it was a back to back win too with me being the winner of the previous issue! Read the winning story bellow and there’s a one minute interview with me with cool questions at the link above. Photo prompt for the contest:

Some Men Would Let the World Burn

Let dollars be thrown in the air in celebration of the future, of prosperity and innovation, and let the electrical body be immortalized! Let men from each side of the world join hands and put great minds together to create and improve. But God, let that be at a lower cost.

Oh, how each light bulb pulsates with power, so bright! So many!

In the crowd I am alone, amongst the buzzes and the clacks of apparatus modern and astonishing. Beyond that I see a society that does not abide by the rules given to it by Destiny. I breathe the air of its false utopia and it sickness me. I have seen a future of Godlike men, emotionless. So tell me Lady Republic, what shall I do to save you?

Ah, there comes old Moore, frightened and absurd. Is it the look of my own handmade apparatus?
“Visconti, wait! What are you doing?”

Salvaging, cleansing. Let it all burn.

The Bay of Huxum

Posted in Flash stories, Short fiction stories with tags , , , , , on 18/01/2014 by Cindy Vaskova

The stillness of the water was disturbed, a gentle quake that spawned ripples, which chased away the thin layer of fog nesting on the surface. From beyond the smog a ghostly silhouette emerged, a mass reeking of sea and gunpowder. The ship sliced the waters as it neared the quiet bay; a king amongst pirates and pillagers, “The Greedy Corsair” was preparing to anchor.

From its deck a song erupted. It was a powerful chant that called upon the dead.

Ahoy brothers
Down at the depths
The bottles we sink
We pour for your sake
Drink them me hearties
Yo ho ho
The sea yer grave
But horizon yer birth
Yo ho ho
Raise to sail
Yo ho ho
Raise to drink

The song carried monotone and chilling while the fearsome band of pirates loaded their pistols and gathered their supplies for a journey on the forgotten land of the isle. Ahead lay a jungle of wonders and dangers, and somewhere in its midst an X marked the buried treasure of an extinct world.

“I’ve heard there’s a myth about these parts.” a bearded sailor said, as he was loading his pistol. “Us blackhearted sailors are cursed er’.”

“And cursed we shall walk the shores.”
Captain Alastair Kant stepped on the deck. He was a tall man and his eyes were as damp and gloomy as the sea itself. His skin was tanned and rough and his beard, the color of dried clay.

The crew gave a hearty laugh, but was silenced by the crack of the deck under the heavy frame of their captain.

“S’ppose you tell us why we’re so unwelcomed here, yer old priest.”

The bearded sailor, who was in fact in his foggy past a man of the lord by title mostly, spit aside and looked dead in the eye the cocky boy who was glaring at him with watery eyes and a rotten smile.

“There’s a beast that lives er’, a scaled devil that don’t die by bullets or blade.”

The crew let a hissing laugh.

“Is true! I’ve heard it dozens of times. Is why no one ever comes er’.”

“There was – interrupted the commotion the captain. He paused gaining the attention of all the men on the deck and perhaps of those in the dead depths of the sea- There was a sacred beast once, a dragon named Huxum. The Vietnamese called him Con quỷ đen, the black demon. He was a vicious creature that pillaged the villages and ate the children, so the old settlers decided to elect a warrior to challenge Huxum. An outsider to the people came to their call. He was unspoken in the myth, nameless for he actually committed a sacrilegious act by defying laws spoken by deities. After defeating the dragon its body fell in these waters and the hero was beheaded. The settlers then build a ship from the bones and the scales in hopes to praise it once more and beg for forgiveness. “The sailing demon” they called it.” A plaque  took  them by that nigh,t every man, woman and child and bound their souls to the skeleton ship. So it became quiet here, so quiet you could hear the dragon breathing.

The captain smirked at the silent crew who stared in awe and looked around them, listening to hear the ghostly dragon.
“Story time is over! Move it you good for nothing drunks!

The song was on again, daggers, ropes and pistols all prepared.

But the waters became restless and the ship rocked. It was a steady rocking at first, though nothing came from the water, and as much as the captain stared at the vast openness nothing came. Then a roar erupted. From above, splitting skies and fog, a fearful skeleton ship covered in black scales was descending. “The sailing demon” was flying towards Captain Kant’s crew, and it had Huxun’s burning eyes fixed upon them.  As the crew rushed to load the guns, the ghost ship breathed its fire upon them, from a sharp toothed mouth.

The bay was shaken by a blast that saw the Corsair sink into oblivion, engulfed in ancient flames.
The waters became still again.

Letter from Alexander

Posted in Flash stories, Short fiction stories with tags , , , , , on 14/12/2013 by Cindy Vaskova

…Hey…hey, I’m here. It’s me. You can wave back, it’s ok. How you’ve been?

Listen, there’s a lot on my mind, but I have something to tell you. Hope you remember this.

I’m not strong as I thought I was and I let you down, I know. You’ve been away and I’ve been away and things got distant. They grew apart, we grew apart. Now I’m see through and you’re solid, just like it was always meant to be. I failed at being there for you, I know, I should have. Forgive me.


There’s a bunch of shit that happened and I’m sorry. I could’ve prevented them if I wasn’t a selfish bastard. Truth is I was scared, and fear got me thinking crazy stuff. Ugly stuff. I’m not proud.

I thought I could erase them, you know, hide the scars, tender the soul. I was hoping, at the end you could see me at my best, glimpse the good in me. I know you believed in it. But I disappointed you, and never got to tell you why I did the things I did, why I wasn’t there, why I went away and never came back. It wasn’t your fault.

I just wanted you to know that you did know the good part of me. It was always there, but I was too stupid to see it and trust it. It was you man. You were my best part and you kept alive the dream of a different outcome. It could have been different.

Thank you for everything. Stay strong and stay safe brother.


“Did he see you? Did he hear you?”

My hand rested upon the temporal switch, now dead and forever inactive. I heard her load the gun again, her heavy breathing, her trembling heart. She was crying, my brave accomplice, wasn’t she? Why wouldn’t she, after all she was going to die. So was I.

But I had bid my farewells, sent them across time and space, hoping they would reach the last person to see me before I entered the void and came to this war world of death and tyranny. I made my choices long ago, but now it feels like it was a breath away when we stood on the sidewalk facing each other; two teenage boys grasping the world in two different ways. He loved it and I hated it. We were unique, but he wanted a human life. I wanted what was mine.

The ship shook violently making the two passengers lose their grip. The tail blew up, metal scattering, falling in the burning planet below. With the substance of the engine gone, the ship was a brainless machine with a suicidal mission. A self-destructive plan. The corpus of the ship swirled and gained speed, ever downwards.

I did it for him. One had to step up and take a position. I never wanted it to be him, to sacrifice himself.

As we both lay, awaiting the fall she reached her arm across the floor and squeezed my hand in hers.


“Marcus, are you all right? You’ve been staring back for the past five minutes, what’s going on?”

Jenna shook his arm, but he was stiff and silent. His eyes were opened wide and his jaw was clenched. The sidewalk was empty, mid October and cold, but he could swear he caught the glimpse of a boy…no, a man standing there. Waiving back.

“Marcus, please say something!”

“I remembered something. Alexander…”

“Who’s Alexander?”

Marcus eased his chest, breathing heavily. A sigh. A relief. And an epic sadness building inside him. It tore through him, through this world, through foolish past and drunk tomorrow. It made him scream, but that scream would never reach so far away. So he wiped his urging tears away.

“He’s a…he’s an old friend. Just an old friend. Thought I saw him.”

Jenna hugged him.

The two walked away. His mind kept replaying the short meeting, and he smiled, though he wanted to cry. He’d be strong and he’d remember. Always.


Posted in Flash stories, Short fiction stories with tags , , , , , on 23/11/2013 by Cindy Vaskova

Something perhaps confusing.



I’m not truly here.  Yet you talk to me assuming I am, assuming I live in your town, maybe even on your street.  I feel close to you, though I remain distant in full anonymity, voiceless and faceless.  I’ve simplified myself to you, giving you a name to use, a name to know me by with ease. To you I am k1d.  And to myself I’m just 01001000101110. I’ve never known me another way.

See, I’m a time traveler, but that definition applies to the canons set by today’s movement. Today is moving quickly, and by the time you click me, I’ve already seen tomorrow.  The Citadel of Web is constantly shifting; gaps lurk everywhere, small invisible whirlpools that threat to throw you in a maze of spam and horror.

There are not many people like me, dwelling in the stream of present and future. It takes a strong grip to not drown in the flood of information. I think I may have been lost there already, transformed into ones and zeros that you transcribe to your news feed , that you translate as k1d, the spam bot, the virgin blogger, the man from the future. There before the happening, a written/visual media that prophesizes the events from tomorrow and floats them down the stream to spread worldwide, accelerating towards the future from which they come.

You simply click and share, being the user that you are.

You don’t know the half of it.

The ones and zeros. Traveling, dispersed and multiplied through vast areas of whole and genuine information, until you locate the one file you need and copy yourself onto it, extracting it, merging it with your unstable form and dragging it back through the stream, translating back to being k1d, translating the coded piece into words.

You don’t know the half of it.

The guest in his house

Posted in Flash stories, Short fiction stories with tags , , , , on 11/10/2013 by Cindy Vaskova

The guest in his house

BeFunky_creepy_staircase_by_karatemancometh-d394az6.jpgImage by karatemancometh

He brought an ill boy back with him. I haven’t seen him for six months, but the boy looked seven and I knew he’d never been to Switzerland before.

I was worried.

The child was pale and weak, a dreary expression on his ghost-like face, his eyes reddened around dark orbits. His hand rested firm on the boy’s shoulder. Firm were his eyes fixed on mine.

I spoke to call a doctor, but he shook his head and without a second glance at me, took the boy upstairs. He didn’t come down for days. And when he came he did so alone, to give some orders to his household staff. Before I could speak to him he was off again. Up the stairs and into the dark.

He had requested the head maid’s presence at the time of solitude, but not once did he send for me. Not once I climbed those stairs seeking him myself. Until…

But no, before that there is some more. Before the dreadful events that took place one night.

I kept wondering, but I heard no sound, no whispers, no shouts, not a mumble rolling down the halls. The maid was but a ghost herself, appearing in the small kitchen for a brief moment, than ascending the stairs in the middle of the night, with a heavy tray loaded with many lids. At least the child is feeding, were my thoughts, but in the back of my mind I knew how awfully strange and wrong his absence seemed, and how even odder was that I never once heard this young boy’s voice.

And I watched in the nights, and I roamed the room downstairs, I raised my voice and banged my fists, but the maids were all so silent, and the footman, and the valet. They were all so silent.

So one night, determined and obsessed a little of my own, I climbed those stairs long after the maid had gone up then came down. I listened to the sound of my foot falling upon the wooden step, the gentle creak of it in the midst of night and I feared I will be heard. But no one came. And so I climbed on.

My fingers brushed up against the wall and it was cold, so very cold! Had there been a window open? But in the stretching corridor, without a light lid on, there was just a door slightly open. I knew it by the instance.

It was my cousin’s door.

Just some feet before the door a wave of chill overtook me, shaking me off stance. I breathed cold like in the midst of winter though I was inside. How could it be so cold?

And then there was this low and fragile sound, as if someone was speaking, repeating something over and over again. What language was that?

With the freeze growing on me I pushed open the door, at last to either witness some monstrosity and end it, or to put aside my worries.

The fireplace was slowly fading, burning down its last two chunks.

“Richard?” I tried calling, but my voice came weak between my chattering teeth.

What I saw next, when my eyes adjusted to the semi-dark inside the room has made me wish I had been blind that moment. Oh, God almighty what I saw there inside!

The sight, the smell, the sound, the cold have ever since been on me. I’m afraid I have invented an asylum here inside my head, inside my home, a small universe of my own to be protected, locked until I die. There, I leave myself to doubt what happened on that night.

But when at night the cold creeps up on me like a stray dog and nibbles on my skin, then I remember how the walls were skin and breathing as if they were alive and the raspy sound as they inhaled. I remember the pulsating hearts and ribs out sticking, dead meat hanging loosely on them. And all those eyes madly spinning in the dark, all those mouths sucking, biting! And the voice, the chanting voice, a figure bend down, crying. Poor Richard! Poor cousin of mine!

I fear no self-imposed sanctuary can receive me and protect from the sight that night of the guest in his house.

The Skeletons in the closet

Posted in Flash stories, Short fiction stories with tags , , , on 05/10/2013 by Cindy Vaskova

I did this a while back for a contest. Some lovely, creative people thought it needed more work and was a bit odd at places and I promised myself I’d fix it as soon as I get my head around it once more. I never did do that, not fully, but I thank them for pointing out the bumps.

 The Skeletons in the closet 

He occasionally joined the smokers outside the hospital, two blocks away from his flat. Their ill-painted faces gazed into some void; while the sparkle in their eyes was beaten to extinction, their parched lips pulled on those fags with a mechanical desire for tasting life. He sat with them with the same want to extract life from a fading object. He lingered until he had eased his countenance and poisoned himself with the unspoken diagnosis written on their death certificates.Then he walked home.
His flat stood colorless on a street corner. Across its shady structure stretched a bar, noticeable by its grand signs, epileptically flickering neon pipes which illuminated the narrow walls of his humble home.

He came in, bringing his shadow along, a skinny imprint dragging at his feet, and sat on the sofa allowing the magenta-blue lights to blind him, penetrating his iris after each teary blink.

There was a thump. He clutched his fingers into a fist. More thumps followed at hectic intervals, each louder than the previous.  He turned rapidly to stare at the closet door, watching the handle being tempered with.

“Shut up!”

Yet at another attempt the door flung open, grasping darkness visible, a depth belonging to the authority of some place, which spawns depraved nightmares.
He arose livid, a mad sparkle aflame in his eye.  The click-clacking sound came to life; the room narrowed even more, crushing his reality. A rotten specter loomed; a yellowing bone reaching for him.

The neons buzzed gently outside.

Tonight they decorated a deaths face. The black sockets were filled with purple, blending into a drowning red, the hanging jaw dipped in light blue, bringing out the hollowness. The lights played upon the skeleton body as it approached, piercing through its ribs, escaping between its fingers.

Angered, he closed the distance between himself and the skeleton and grabbed it by the cracked skull.

“How many times have I told you to stay inside? I don’t want to see you, you hear me? You hear me in there?  Stay inside and be quiet!” His fingers tangled in the remaining flocks of hair and he dragged the frail creature back into its dungeon, shutting the door tight. However, unable to lock it.

He spent the night drinking. He laughed afterwards, a mad and bitter laughter. A false remedy for fear.

Inside the closet, his past desperately scratched at the door to be let out, to be set free. Two other skeletons sat by its side, long ago in terms with their helplessness.

He stopped before the closet door, a stink of alcohol on his breath.

“You’re never getting out of here.” It wasn’t a warning.

Once acquiring skeletons in your closet, you’re never rid of them. They simply follow.

Where we belong

Posted in Flash stories, Short fiction stories with tags , , , , on 06/09/2013 by Cindy Vaskova

Where we belong

“Valentine, what’s death like?”

He gestures at all, his large hand gliding through the liquid heat, heavily floating in the cigarette choked air. I nod, taking the ugly silence of the empty stage.

In the cabaret, that’s death; wood swollen and cracked, curtains moll-eaten and reeking of thousand perfumes, wine stains looking like blood stains, dirty glasses hanging loosely, each sip bringing the taste of ten others, bringing the taste of a forgotten era. Each night a different tune, and now silence.

‘Where are the dancers?’

‘Ain’t working tonight. Ain’t notin’ workin’ tonight.’

His voice lingers, contrabass playing solo in the quietness; I listen holding drum sticks in sweaty palms, looking at them with hazy eyes thinking I don’t remember how to play. I roll them down the counter, watching them fall.

Valentine moves like a shadow beside me; a tall, slim curator in the gallery of death, a crooked spider, with a top hat and mourners eyes sometimes black, sometimes with no distinguishable color. Just deep and wet. He dusts a record, flipping the vinyl with his long fingers. Then the needle touches the black surface, and his song drags a nostalgic voice, a melancholic sax play, sex talk, long lost, love lost.

He puffs out a cloud of smoke. I stretch my hand wanting his poison filling my lungs too.

The song goes on forever. I stopped hearing the lyrics long ago. I’ve aged too. But here sits Valentine, humming, a word rolling out of his parched lips here and there. He knows it all too well.

My body aches. I am tired, and this timeless life bears no mercy for me.

“Valentine, can you take me home?”

He doesn’t talk. He slips out the keys from his pocket and draws skeleton fingers through tick, curly hair. He and I are both tired.

I turn around glaring at the spinning record. As Valentine clicks the door open the needle pops up, giving way to the grim silence.

We walk outside, away from the stillness, and a cold wave of air brushes my face. I shiver. Dusk has fallen.

I don’t remember it ever being day. This night is so full of dark I can’t believe it turning light.

Even outside the bar the world seems dead itself. People visible indoors, the café across full, no one bothering to look beyond the glass walls. Not a single couple occupying the charming light spot beneath the old-fashioned laps aligned up and down the street.

“D’ya fancy another fag?”

Valentine’s voice breaks about, spinning me on heels towards him. How does he seem so out of it all? Calm, casual. I shake my head and pick another poisonous dose, allowing him to light it for me. Then I follow him down the road.

Around the corner is a dim curtain, fog crawling about the street, what is beyond it, invisible. I pause and watch as Valentine’s tall and slim figure dives inside. Not wanting to be left behind I stride faster, catching his shadow inside the whiteness.

I think myself lost. This is not the road home. The more we pace together in the late night, the more I realize it is just us two outside. Alone. Or not existing at all.

“Valentine, where are we going?”

“Home. Twas what you wanted, nay?”

He looks at me then, his eyes black marbles, long, untamable curls swinging before his white face.

I want to run away from that stare.

“I don’t remember where that was.” My voice suddenly trembles and I can see him catch up that tremble in his eyes and blow it to dust, reassuring me of my own mind and my memory.

“Sure you do.”

Then I speak again.

“I remember different street names, those that are no longer here. I remember how the buildings were built and when this street was paved. I remember when there was a Yantsy Brothers there on the corner, and I remember when Clermont’s was on fire and the women burned to death. I can see them, all of them, inside their world, but can they see me, Valentine? Can they see us?”

He shakes his head, his gaze fixed on me.

How could’ve I forget? Valentine was eternal that much I’ve always known, but…

“Valentine, did you know you were dead? Because I think I am.” The words slip out of my mouth.

Valentine slowly nods.

“Twas a good run wiv ya, but we both got to go, you mostly, I to follow. It’s over there, down the road, you know, where the streets cross each other.”

He offers me his hand and I take it, his cold fingers tangling firmly into mine, and he leads me onwards, downwards, to the end. Now I remember.

What is there to question anymore?

There goes Valentine, a man I’ve known all my time around these parts, where my transparent self, operated against the rules of the mortal world, against the rules of the outer one. I wouldn’t want anyone else to take me to my final rest, but Valentine.

Now the fog clears, I can clearly see the illusionary plaza. The buildings around it smell of ashes, and seem worn out, somehow gloom in color. A white fire burns in the middle, erupting from the crooked pavement.

Valentine tells me to walk cautiously. There are eyes upon us, older than Valentine. They hover, invisible, but there, making sure I walk the flames, and Valentine follows.

I stop.

“Valentine, I’m scared.”

My sudden weakness and my voice aloud brings four hooded figures.

“You must go now. There is nothing to fear ahead. I’ll be closely behind.”

I look at my patron, then at the dark spectators. Have I any right to damn us both?

The flames soak through my skin and as they fill me, the watchers draw nearer. I try to shout them off, but I have no voice.

I begin to fade.  Within the brightness I can’t see…did Valentine follow me?

Roads of the Unknown

Posted in Flash stories, Short fiction stories with tags , , , , , on 07/06/2013 by Cindy Vaskova

Roads of the Unknown

‘It’s getting too late.”

This had become a set of monotone words Joey had repeated over and over. It had gotten too late hours ago, but still, we waited. Four cars parked in the darkness, headlights crossing yellow swords; four men in black suits, ties hanging loose on top of white shirts. We share quick glances, counting the missing spot, the missing fifth, filling it with the non-present figure of another in black suit and weary face. This was due to be the last annual meeting before we separate, retire from this job; 17 years of service had done their fair share of damage and tonight we could all go back home, go back to being us. But he’s not here. This year there’s an empty space and an empty voice. He’s out of reach. And we’re not going anywhere. Not for a very long time.


1 midnight earlier

He leaned against the lamppost and tried to remember what city he was in.

It was one of those nights again when his brain was mash and his breath stank of overslept alcohol. Lately there were too many such nights and too many unknown cities to which lights or dim mornings he had woken up to. He was used to the feeling of being lost and blank, of being poison day and night, dragging weary body through weeks of ignorance. Shit, those were years, not weeks.

He grabbed an empty glass and filled it with water from the bathroom. That half-washed the taste in his mouth.

The suitcase still lied under the bed. He pulled it out, scanning the code on the front side, making sure it’s sealed.

2 hours until delivery.

He put his rugged jacket on. A glimpse of himself called from the smudged mirror. He saw four more men staring back; one more day till they all break free. One more day and he could have beaches and cocktails. He could have sun and stars and trips to that lake he saw on a postcard in Canada.

He washed his face and slicked his hair. At the end of the dead hallway of the unknown hotel he pushed open a door that wasn’t there. He stepped in a back alley two cities and some 200 miles away. Cotton candy music erupted next to him. “Cotton candy” to him was that tune which plays in all those half-dead bars; 20 different songs sounding the same, replaying until the morning brings sickness and the night releases the sober to dive again. Somewhere beyond the gritty door with stickers and a spastic red “EXIT” awaited the closing deal.

He walked through the bar, suitcase heavy in his hand, a sick wave of local sweatiness showering him fully. The “WC” door in the far left had the bright red coloring that marked an open portal to another universe.  As he approached he felt the universe rubbing into this one. A certain odor was present in the air,  different ray of colors reflected on the glasses carried by the waitresses. It was even marked on each person. Little did they know, the portal affected them more or less – tiny particles of the opposite universe leaked out, slipping in their brains, making him almost transparent to their perception. Other than that he was too fucked up from crossing back and forth to exist on his own.

He slid like a ghost past them and through the door, which beamed him up, bathing him in red. He closed his eyes from the pain.

The door closed shut. The other side stank worst then a rat’s pit.

Squinted eyes, bright yellow irises, foreign whispers, mechanical squeeks, motorcycle roars, glasses shattering, too bright lights, too loud music, high heels on the bar, high heels on the floor. He hated it all. It was the worst mixture of the human world and this wormhole that gathered scum from all sides. Alien and whatnot. He reached for his watch. The time eating gap had left him with ten minutes until the meeting.

‘D’ya want somethin’…sugar?’

He followed the curves her long tongue demonstrated with a gum. The seductive act felt wrong as it transpired. Maybe it could seem more appropriate and accommodating later.

‘Just the backroom pass Jezz. And maybe two shots for when I get out.’

The green-eyed barmaid smirked and pushed over a card. It had his ugly picture on it.

‘See you later suit-and-tie.’

He held on to the suitcase moving through the crowd. Backroom door. Backrooms were scary because they contained asocial people with psychotic disorders and too much money for too much no good. Like the countenance of the suitcase.

‘Right on the dot. That’s Mr. Lachlan for you.’

With a pearly skinned beauty on his lap, number 2 in the black market business, Rosarie slapped a big grin on his face, complimenting the man in plain suit to his fellow crime doers.

Lachlan laid the suitcase on the desk and offered the lock-removal code that matched the one Rosarie had previously received from the seller. He was a ruthless son of a bitch and Lachlan knew to keep cool, taking all the jokes and the giggles without a blink. He was just a delivery boy.

Rosarie hesitated before clicking it open. Then curiosity and cruelty took place and his sharp features became even more sharpened. Hermetic hood raised open. His face remained still for a moment. His lips muttered words, and it took Lachlan an eternity to comprehend what was said. “What the fuck is this?”

The suitcase was turned around in a swift move and Lochlan was scared to bring his glance down and witness his downfall.

‘Let me tell you something. It’s my own proverb, my most precious of virtues. I enjoy simplicity. I bless it. And as always that’s what I expect from deals like this. Make it easy for me and hard for you. I pay you to do the job. End of. Simple, clean. But when someone tries to play around with me and disturb my simplicity therefore my peace, I get really, really pissed off Lachlan. Now, I neither have my money, nor my toy. Nor my patience.”

Lachlan dared himself and shot a look at the countenance. He thought to laugh, but the urge died the instant it appeared and he stared at the white piece of paper with a crimson kiss on it, knowing he would never get to visit that lake on a Canadian postcard. Nor will four other men.

Rosarie might of already killed him, but Lachlan felt distant, he felt numb. Flashbacks invaded him; hard job, merciless job, roads without signs, nights without days. One night more vivid then the others in one of those cities he never remembers the name of.   Many uncertainties, many unknowns. This universe then that, very noir and then all shiny like Vegas. Simplicity. His own design of things. And all of a sudden she, leaning towards him, martini on her lips. Interruption. Change. A side-attraction. Pleasure. One memoryless night. How could have he forgotten? How, how, how?

Rosarie looked mad. They all looked mad; rabid dogs with steel in their nasty paws.

Lachlan awaited.



To be continued

‘He leaned against the lamppost and tried to remember what city he was in’ comes from a writing prompt sentence at Today’s Author

The Visitor

Posted in Short fiction stories with tags , , , , , on 25/05/2013 by Cindy Vaskova

Hello there! I’ve been absent for almost 2 weeks, having some side work with university and having my big summer travel, all the way to the USA (which, by the way is a long, long 10 hour flight) for 4 months of working. So aside from a little jet lag and getting used to the time difference (8 hours from Bulgaria),  and in general to the “being away” feeling, I am now trying to find my head and write something this week before I start work. So, for now I leave you with this small story.


The Visitor


The bullet dug dirt next to Tom’s boot.
“I only want to see my daughter, Clive.”
With wobbly hands Clive aimed again. His countenance revealed fright.
“You ain’t coming further boy. Take a hike or I’ll put you to sleep.” growing cantankerous, his acrimonious oratory showed he means to kill.

Tom’s face changed from the pleading expression to that bound to kill if refused again. His eyes grew cold by the minute. “I have to see her.”

Clive took a step further, boldness filling him; predator like, a play-pretend to intimidate the opponent. The shotgun  stayed close to his chest, rhythmically moving with his breathing.

“She don’t want to see you. She’s scared of you. Hell, I don’t blame her. You got too much dark in you. I ain’t letting you past this porch. What’s it gonna be?”

Tom took a deep breath. He caressed his sapphire ring; right hand tensing, his veins popping out. The two gold lions supporting the gem became animated; their encrusted eyes turned to him with a carnivorous glimmer.

“Step away old man.” His voice was a hiss.
Clive fired.
An illusory octagon entrapment caught him second after the bullet erupted. Blackness engulfed him, tongues of dark material licking his parched skin. In blindness he searched for an escape, dropping the shotgun, forgetting the bullet. A trail of sparkles caught his attention. It seemed distant. He stared at it.

The bullet ricocheted before piercing his temple.

Tom stepped over the body of the old man, his blood descending down the wooden stairs, dripping in large bloody droplets.

The door swung open; the two lions, mere phantasms of white smoke disappeared behind Tom, his magic easing.

“Scarlett sweety, daddy’s home.”


Posted in Short fiction stories with tags , , , , , , , , , on 10/05/2013 by Cindy Vaskova

I don’t think I’ve ever tried writing a poem, or a piece resembling one in style or rhyme, but here goes a try. No matter how you view this I hope you enjoy it!

Skrik – Edvard Munch



 -  Oh, pretentious beast within, thou thirst is never settled!

By day I abhor that which in night I have loved

A faceless courtesan stealing my soul

In sand filled vastness, my voice merely whisper

For apathetic time, I condemn myself to die quicker

Misshapen and foul

From inferior birth I crawled in this life

Two-faced Janus

Twice death, not once life.

Days of spring,

Distant charmers – I call upon you now!

Days of autumn,

Fiery morrows – I long search for you, come!

To light me up and wake me from my sorrow,

To rid me of that haunting hollow,

Harbored deep inside my core

But if my soul demands some light

It be burning through my eyes

Asking me to cloak myself forever

Never grasp another light of day, not ever

Abandoned in the midst of stormy weather,

I cry for shores distant and unknown

A voice now slowly fading

For a life just barely known

While Passionless time never halts

Inside this epic desert

Which I abhor.


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